From the Corner of My Eye to the Back of My Mind
by Lono
Summary: Yet, even as he stands with all of this heaviness just outside her cozy flat, shaking snowflakes from his hair, she smiles so sweetly and takes hold of his hand, pulling him into the warmth.


Thanks to **dietplainlite** for looking this over and not saying, "I like the story's first word. Re-write everything else."

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><p><em>From the corner of my eye to the back of my mind, I recognize what you mean to me.<em>

- "One Day", Paolo Nutini, _Caustic Love -_

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><p>He had so many choices for where he could go this evening.<p>

Tomorrow morning, he will leave his best friend, never to see him again. Right this moment, he could be sitting at their dining table, listening to Mary and John bicker over baby-rearing. He could be observing them to make sure they will be alright. A six-day-old reconciliation could hardly sweep the tang of hurt from John's tongue, nor the wariness from Mary's. But he would know by watching them.

If he were in his flat, Mrs. Hudson would be fussing over him, bringing him tea and biscuits and asking him to play something on his violin. Lestrade would bring him some case files to peruse.

He could be sitting across from his brother in his cavernous lounge, sipping Scotch that was aged enough to have him wheezing like an old man of the same vintage.

Hell, he could be with his mum and dad, listening to their endless discussion of village gossip and their recounting of a "funny" faux pas during a line dancing evening before they came back to England for the holidays.

He would even enjoy any of those options. He could smile at John and Mary as they pondered which of them would teach the baby code breaking first.

He could play something sweet for Mrs. Hudson. Debussy, perhaps. She'd blush when his violin sang "La fille aux cheveux de lin", even if her hair is more light brown than blonde, and more dyed than natural.

He could keep his mind busy with Lestrade's work and friendly company. He'd muster some derisive comments about the police work, but he'd gladly send Greg—yes, _Greg_—home with an answer or at least an idea.

He and Mycroft would likely discuss survival tactics, even though they'd doubtlessly prove futile. And then they'd watch the flames in the grate.

He would let his parents to 'talk him into' moving aside the lounge furniture (though he'd feign annoyance), and they'd grapevine to a swooping, old, Country Western voice. His mum does love her Patsy Cline.

But when he'd been fitted with the ankle monitor and asked where he'd like spend his last evening—there was no point in pretending this is anything other than the night before execution, protracted though it might be—he hadn't even thought about it.

He can see himself in all those places, but there is only one place he wants to be and he doesn't for one second regret his choice.

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><p>She knows something is wrong. Of course she does.<p>

She's dressed up, wearing a black, cap-sleeved top tucked into a full, black skirt of silk and tulle that stops at her knees. She only wears small diamonds in her ears for jewelry and her curled hair glows in the light from the Christmas tree she still has up in the corner of her lounge.

Vaguely, he realizes it's New Year's Eve. She has plans.

Yet, even as he stands with all of this heaviness just outside her cozy flat, shaking snowflakes from his hair, she smiles so sweetly and takes hold of his hand, pulling him into the warmth. He can hear her dropping the deadbolt and securing the chain behind him before she tugs at his coat until he helps her, hanging it next to a bright teal, puffy monstrosity.

When she puts a hand on his shoulder, drawing him down, he bends and receives the warm press of her mouth to his cheek. He reciprocates, drops of melted snow on his lips leaving a shimmery mark on her skin.

She doesn't wipe it away.

Leading him into the kitchen, she pulls out a chair for him before moving over to a cupboard. She brings down a wine glass and extracts a bottle from the fridge. Setting it in front of him, she's not afraid to step into him, to put her hand on the back of his chair to brace herself while she pours him something golden that immediately leaves a cold sweat on the outside of the glass. He looks up at her instead of following the path of wine to glass, and she meets his gaze, eyes dark, after she's finished pouring.

Her iPod is plugged into a speaker in the corner of the small kitchen. A man sings, wailing raspily to a slow, sultry beat.

Funny, to think of music as sultry. He's always appreciated music, of course. But it's always been more to do with the mathematics of its beauty, not the mood it sets. Previously, he would have stiffly said that its interpretation is subjective, and that he had no time for the frivolity of symbolism or intention. Just facts.

But the music notes and the pressure of her knees to the outside of his thigh while they look at each other have potential. The beat of the music and her hand moving to his shoulder bring implications. The words to the song and the small tilt of her lips make promises.

She eventually pulls away, not out of awkwardness or embarrassment, or even a desire to end their stare. How he knows this, he can't say, but he _does_ know. The light drag of her fingers across his shoulders when she turns back to her cooktop act as a placeholder.

She's stirring something in a pot—no doubt some offering for whatever party she's clearly decided not to attend, late notice be damned—but he is wholly incurious about its contents. He isn't sure what spell has come over them that keeps him staring at her in a way that would normally have her huffing in annoyance and hunching her shoulders. But it's there, and she only looks over her shoulder at him a few times to smile before returning to her task.

So he sits, content as she moves about her small kitchen. He toys with the stem of his wineglass, watching the sway of her hips as she dances to the music. During a few crescendos within the song, she moves more obviously, though her subtler sways aren't borne of self-consciousness. Her silk-stockinged feet whisper as she moves and he can hear the low pitch of her humming along.

His chest burns.

It aches and it's creeping up his throat.

Clearing it, he shifts in the chair, suddenly wanting to complain about the hardness of the wood, to tell her that he is allergic to wine (he isn't). Anything to reestablish some normality. Anything but the way this night _is: _sitting in her kitchen, watching her dance, hearing her sing, seeing her smile at him.

She turns when she hears his fidgeting to see if he's trying to get her attention. He's crossed his legs, lounging back with an arm hooked over the back of the chair in the worst pantomime of nonchalance ever performed, and her eyes fall to the right cuff of his trousers. It's ridden up a bit, the tracker blatantly obvious.

Her face and body show no reaction, to the point that he nearly begs her to act offended and appalled. To whisper that he's clearly being watched and ask why he's brought just one more thing to her door.

More than that, though, he wants her to acknowledge what she _must_ know. That there is only one reason a man with a damned electronic tether locked onto him would be in her home. He wants her to understand the meaning behind the lack of armed men battering down her door, intent on dragging him away.

He wants her to tell him that she knows that _he_ asked to come here. That she knows why he had to see her. Why he chose to spend his last night as fully living man with her.

She moves forward, the fabric of her party outfit rustling as she stoops down to inspect the ankle monitor, running a finger over it and then tapping it once perfunctorily before she tugs off his shoes and sets them neatly under his chair. She uses his knee to pull herself upright and then she just looks down at him again, her eyes sorrowful but still so warm.

When she holds her hands out to him, he doesn't hesitate to take them, to let her pull him to his feet, too. Pliantly, he stands there, waiting for her next cue, letting her mold him as she'd like.

It's no great sacrifice when it turns out that she'd like his arms around her. He tightens them of his own accord, and sighs when her arms encircle him in return, looping around his neck. She's straining to keep hold, he can tell, so he toes at both of her feet with his socked ones in turn, until she steps up onto them. It doesn't do much for her height, but he can rest his chin on the top of her head a bit more comfortably. The notches of his elbows fit into he dips of her waist.

Ducking his head, he kisses the crown of her soft hair as he sways her to the beat of that sultry music.

The songs cycle through, but he's not sure either of them is paying much mind to a tune, nor is he aware of how long they stand there. At some point, she moves her arms from around his shoulders to his waist, and he switches with her, so they are now in more of an embrace than a dance. But he continues to move back and forth, back and forth.

Eventually, she sighs against his chest, and he feels and hears the slight tremor to it. Wanting to soothe, he gathers her thick hair in one hand, pulling it to the side so he can kiss the exposed line of her neck. Her perfume is stronger at her pulse, the heat of her skin adding warmth to its scent. He wants to embed it to the best of his sense memory. He needs to be able to recall it when he is far away and out of reach from her.

The way his lips touch her changes, though. The contact becomes less soothing, more worshipful. He tastes her skin, sipping kisses from her pulse, from the junction of neck and shoulder, from her collarbone, and his hands begin stroking up and down the length of her back. It's a caress and a lure, calling her closer to him and closer, still.

She answers him, presses tightly to him. Her arms vise around him, and his do the same in agreement. Turning her head, she nuzzles his cheek, encouraging him with each stroke to lift his face. It's a simple matter, then, for their lips to meet. It's so simple and so complex, the polarization of her kissing him.

Their mouths and tongues pay homage amid shortening breaths and soft murmurs to each other.

As their kisses and touches deepen, so does a chasm in his chest, one he was all too aware would open when he came here. He doesn't fight it. He can only try to float over it for as long as possible. Inevitably, there will be a drop, and for this fall, she can't be the one he needs. He knows the science behind the sharp ache in his chest. He could explain it away with chemicals and physiology, but for the first time, he wants to call it what it is: heartbreak. He's had twinges and trial runs before, but never this.

What's worse is that he feels this pain all while an alien joy also floods him. He's touching her. He's holding and kissing her. They're each other's bounty for tonight.

Heartbreak and joy: the polarization of _her_.

When he lays her down on her bed, their bare skin meeting and the cradle of her body welcoming him, he could choose to block out everything but their pleasure. He does let himself wallow in it, but he also commits the race of their bodies and the feeling of being inside her to his memory. He will recall the sounds she makes in passion, and the ones he makes for her. His eyes will remember the flush that spreads across her skin as they move together and the shadow of her lashes against her cheeks when her eyes squeeze shut and her hands grip him almost painfully.

Her long hair is fanned out across the pillow beneath her head, and when he is swamped and overcome by her, her buries his face in it.

After, he lies with his ear pressed to her breast, listening to her heartbeat as it calms. He'll commit that to memory, too. She strokes his back and hair, occasionally kissing his forehead. The way his arms are still wrapped tightly around her, her back arched to accommodate them, might be uncomfortable, but she doesn't let on. She doesn't want him to move, though he half-heartedly offers.

They don't discuss what this means, because they both know it can't mean anything even as it means everything. She doesn't ask him what they'll do tomorrow. She knows enough about farewell to recognize this for what it is. She doesn't ask him why it had to come to this for him to find his way into her arms, because she's far too empathetic and knows he wants to weep for it.

So they lie there quietly and think of the dark as _tonight_, the nearing sunrise as _tomorrow_. Tomorrow, where he will leave her for the last time. Tomorrow, where she can't be the one he needs.

And then Sherlock Holmes allows a secret smile to tilt his lips against her skin. Because even in that ephemeral tomorrow, Molly Hooper will still be the one who saves him.


End file.
